


Best Buddies

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8065015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: That's what Trip thought they were.  Now, he's not so sure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Set during Season 2. Spoilers referenced in the chapter notes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've been invited to a cultural evening. That's not always a thrill-a-minute, but this time Trip's in for quite a surprise.

Shuffling after his commanding officer through an auditorium crowded with chattering mahogany-skinned aliens, Commander Charles Tucker the Third indulged himself with a long, unashamedly curious stare through three hundred and sixty degrees. It had been a long time since a new species had been as enthusiastically welcoming as the garrulous, gesticulating occupants of this small minshara class planet called Heema Librat.

Last night his harmonica recital had received two standing ovations. Chef had been inundated with eager requests for recipes. Even T'Pol's dissertation on Vulcan philosophy had ended in a storm of enthusiastic applause which had woken the slackers at the back of the hall. When Minister Werran had invited the senior staff to attend a cultural evening planetside after a sacrifice like that, even Lieutenant Reed couldn't raise a reasonable objection.

So Malcolm, like the rest of the staff, was inching forward through the throng toward a narrow staircase swathed in red velvet and smelling of cobwebs and fifteen years' accumulated dust. As inconspicuously as he could Tucker drew in a deep breath that tightened his firm abs and stung his chest. If the seats were designed with the average Heeman in mind, he'd be holding things in a lot for the next few hours.

"Please, Captain, the Guests' Box is to your right." Minister Werran's twig-sharp hands waved in the musty gloom, their pointed nails glittering. A curtain was drawn aside, offering access to a steeply banked block of seating; four short rows, Tucker noticed, of bucket seats lined with black satin and no cushions. The smile he was halfway offering to their host stuck at a painfully twisted grimace.

"Please, Doctor - Ensigns Hoshi and Travis - if you would be seated in the second row." The topmost seats were already occupied by beaming Heemans, whispering and rubbing their hands while they fidgeted in childlike anticipation of the show. Obediently Tucker squeezed himself into place between Archer and T'Pol, cursing the bad luck that put his likeliest source of humour on the Vulcan officer's other side.

Malcolm Reed caught his glance and arched a well marked eyebrow in mute reply before shuffling into the most comfortable position available and turning his stoic attention to the circular stage around which terraces of seating rose at a perilous angle. But for a few flower petals the platform was bare; a wooden board hardly big enough to stage a one-man band show. 

If this was the Heeman idea of a wild night out, Tucker suspected those ovations for his musical talents hadn't been such a big deal after all.

He opened his mouth to pass that witticism on to a friend who'd be sure to appreciate it, but before he could catch Jonathan Archer's eye the few dim lights set in the ceiling cut out and the full-throated boom of a single drum beat out. 

The truncated squeak of a startled linguist struck the side of Tucker's cheek with the force of a princess's palm but he was grateful for its sting. In total darkness the silence which engulfed the rest of the auditorium was unnerving. He felt like a small boy on the edge of a sheer cliff. 

Stupidly he gripped the sides of his seat until his knuckles cracked, as if he could stop himself toppling over. Just the sound of someone breathing; that was all he needed. A thread of connection to hold onto in the dark.

Directly over the stage a large spotlight hummed into life, dust particles dancing through the beam on their descent to caress a statuesque male, his modesty just about protected by a loose pouch of gold silk. Every muscle and nerve ending in Trip Tucker's body went into instantaneous spasm. 

Large and powerfully built, warm-skinned with shaggy sandy hair, the man might have been Jon Archer's double and when his splayed palms swept over the hairy expanse of a broad chest the incestuous frisson of the thought sent a spike deep down into Tucker's balls. He'd never thought of Johnny that way - _well, not sober, anyway_ \- and now he knew why.

Part turned-on, part mortified, he squeezed his eyes shut but still saw the taunting vision with the same painful clarity. Beneath the repetitive beat of a single drum a second skein of music began to swirl: the low, breathy whistle of the snake-charmer's call. 

Somebody gasped. Tucker's eyes flew open.

Guilt dissolved, swamped by excitement's heady rush. His mouth dried up despite his throat's convulsion. Captivated, he watched as a lithe younger man rolled through the petals to writhe around the double's bare feet.

Pa-doom. Pa- _dooom_. Like the thump of a heartbeat the drumming echoed around the small hall. Tucker could feel his own vital signs slowing down to match its insistent rhythm while the sinuous swirl of the wind instrument prickled all the fine hairs on his skin. When the newcomer began to rise, swaying like a cobra from his basket around Jon-a-like's calves, tongue flicking out to feather where it would, he swore he could feel the contact through to his own marrow.

Close by his fellow officers were shifting, soft hisses of exhaled breath reverberating through the dark. Trip Tucker was conscious of none of them, trapped in a glinting vortex of sexual awareness so bright it hurt. The bigger man was visibly moaning now, rocking to every move of his tormentor's mouth and hands. How long had it been since someone had focussed so much on making him feel that good?

_Too long._

He was drooling. His pants might have been made from goats hair filled with fleas wherever they scraped his hyper-sensitive flesh. Damn, he wanted to be played with that way!

Something nudged his knee, wrenching him painfully from his erotic daze. "'scuse me," Malcolm Reed grated as he barged by, his humiliation obvious despite the concealing dark and the pair of slim white hands that clasped uselessly below the waist. Briefly, compassion for the Englishman overrode Tucker's personal half-savoured shame. He was out of his restrictive seat before he realised what he was doing.

"Sorry, Cap'n," he muttered while bumping by Archer's legs. His chest felt tight. He had to get out before his head - or something more important - exploded.

Without conscious consideration he staggered in Reed's wake, up a few ankle-breaking steps impossible to climb elegantly in the dark and out past stifling draperies onto a narrow landing barely lit by two brass lanterns covered in a fine grey film of grime and scorched cobweb. Rendered awkward by the protrusion between his thighs Tucker lurched along toward a dark wood door, several layers of varnish cracked and peeling around the handle, and shoved it inward.

"Whoops! Sorry, Mal!" 

When the lieutenant started he realised the soft thud of door into shoulder had gone unnoticed. "Oh, er, not to worry, Commander," Reed stammered, flushing to the roots of his tousled dark hair. Angling his body away from the newcomer in an effort to hide his discomfort he only succeeded in highlighting it. Tucker raised both hands in the universal sign of surrender.

"Easy, buddy, you got no more to hide than I do." The briefest glimpse told the engineer his friend had every bit as much as himself, making concealment all the more difficult and his own erection pulse with renewed vigour. "Quite a show, isn't it?"

"God, yes!" Reed flattened his hands against the cold tiles, his head hanging down between hunched shoulders. "I'm sorry, I just..."

"Yeah. Likewise." As if watching two guys getting it on hadn't heated him up enough, now he was face to cock with the man he'd spent months imagining getting in just that position: the man he'd been sure would heave him out the nearest airlock in horror at the very idea. "Been a while for you too, huh?"

The bowed head jerked. Then, slowly, it came up. Reed's whole body turned, the erection that refused to deflate rearing into plain sight and drying out Tucker's mouth however hard he swallowed. "But if you consider a week a long time, Commander...."

_A week? Oh, fuck!_

"Guess I kinda let everybody think I'd gotten lucky with the princess,"Trip conceded in the most casual tone possible - an octave too high thanks to the tight sensation in his pants, he decided. Reed snorted.

"Are you saying you didn't?"he challenged.

Only Malcolm Reed could start an interrogation while sporting a giant boner in an alien john. "I'm sayin'," Tucker confirmed, squaring his stance and exposing his seriousness in all its twitching splendour. "C'mon, Malcolm! Sure, Kaitaama's pretty, but please! The woman's a Grade A pain in the ass.

"Anyway, she got the wrong kind of tools, you know?"

He watched a single sable brow make a Vulcanesque climb to slash across a broad British brow. "A lot of ladies would be disappointed to hear that statement from you, Mister Tucker," Reed remarked, dangerously calm. Though his stomach dropped like he'd just hit Zero-G for the first time, Trip contrived a casual shrug.

"I like sex with a girl as much as the next bisexual man, Malcolm, but you know how it is. Ain't nothin' _really_ comes close to the feel of a man pushin' through your asshole, right?"

"Christ, no!" It was barely more than a whimper, an admission Reed couldn't hold back. Past caring, he delved past the aggravating uniform fastenings, long lashes sweeping onto flushed cheeks at the first brush of fingers through the fine cotton of his boxers. Tucker's head began to swim.

"Dammit, Reed!" he moaned, following suit with an eagerness that almost bust his zipper. "I can't - I need..."

"Yes!"

Which of them made the first move, Trip Tucker would never recall. All he knew was that cold air was replaced by hot, slick flesh against his exposed front and he found himself staggering, clutching the man he'd come to call his best friend since Enterprise's launch had prised a chasm between Jon Archer and himself. Something touched his aching balls, fluttering fingers he knew dimly couldn't be his own - they were full of thick, throbbing, velvet-sheathed Malcolm - and then all understanding, all clinical recollection, was blown to the other end of the galaxy.

He came long and hard, deaf to his guttural groans, his ears filled with the smoky, sexy sound of Malcolm Reed's cut-glass English accent howling out his name. Wet warmth spread across his stomach and he gasped, writhing to get more out of the ebbing sensation that passed between them. "Holy shit!" somebody panted.

Tucker suspected that was probably him.

His hunch was confirmed when the perfectly-sculpted form against him swayed away, leaving his flaccid member to twitch in protest at the sudden chill that engulfed it. "I'm terribly sorry, Commander," Reed rapped out, hands behind his back and head held high as if he were fully uniformed and facing a phalanx of admirals rather than staggering across a bathroom with his clothes askew and his cock flopping out of his pants. "My actions were..."

"Hold it right there, buddy." Frustration. It beat a splash of cold water as an afterglow cure any day. Pushing himself up to his full height Tucker glowered down at the younger man, pushing away the intrusive shimmer of purely physical appreciation that passed through him. "What about _my_ actions? Now, you may have started all that -I don't know. I've not been thinkin' real clearly the last twenty minutes."

"If either of us had been thinking at all, that wouldn't have happened." All mixed up with guilt, embarrassment and confusion the stoic lieutenant was irresistible; defences down, rumpled, uncertain and sexy as all hell. Even the bitter twist to his words couldn't stop Tucker's emptied tanks begin the luscious process of refilling at the sight of him.

"Blame the Heemans," he suggested, exaggerating his action in gallantly averting his eyes while the Brit fumbled himself into a more respectable state of dress. "Sonofabitch! They applaud T'Pol's philosophy lecture when they're used t' entertainment like _that?_ "

"I assume _that_ is a highlight of the social calendar," Reed replied drily. "And thanks, but you can turn 'round now. I realise you're a gentleman but that _is_ a bit extreme considering where your hands have just been."

That was the Malcolm he depended on, Tucker realised; the supremely competent tactician, able to handle just about whatever the universe threw at him, up to and including a sneaky grope with an overheated superior in an alien theatre. "Mah hands kinda liked it, Loo-tenant," he drawled, extending the rank to win a reluctant smile from its bearer. "And my cock did, too. Seriously, buddy. I think we both needed that."

That eyebrow did its thing again, creating a magnetic pull inside Tucker's pants. "No mention in the personnel records then?"

"Not unless you want a commendation."

Reed's bark of laughter rebounded off the polished tiles. "Unless you'd like to be responsible for mass cardiac failure at headquarters..." he retorted, and Tucker suspected he wasn't the only one adding relief to the heady cocktail of emotions that was keeping him pleasantly off-balance. "We're still friends, then?"

"You think I'd get my dick out for just anybody? Malcolm, I'm hurt!"

"Oh, stop being an arse!" The irritated exclamation was out before Reed's hand could shoot up to catch it. "I'm being serious, Trip. Yes, that was bloody marvellous if you're fishing for compliments, but I value you as my friend. I wouldn't want..."

"We're both adults, Malcolm." Sometimes he wasn't so sure about that, but Trip ploughed on regardless. "And what I'm tryin' to say is, releasin' a little tension together won't change our friendship - not from where I'm standin' anyway. Hell, we helped each other out, didn't we? Isn't that what friends do?"

"I'm not sure I've ever helped a friend like that before, Mister Tucker."

From anybody else that would've been a _back-off_ formality. From Malcolm Reed, teamed with an irrepressible twinkle in the star-bright eyes, it was a positive verbal high-five. 

"Me neither, but I wouldn't mind doin' it again sometime."

"With any friend in particular?"

"If you're willing, yeah." He hadn't meant to suggest it but now the words were coming out - verbal diarrhoea his mother called it - Tucker couldn't stop the flow. "Hell, it's been years since anybody's made me feel this good; and now...you liked it too, right?"

"I did." He could almost see the cogs turning; that cool analytical mind working through the question at hand and every one of its fifteen million, seven hundred thousand and three potential repercussions. "You're suggesting we become - is the term _fuck-buddies?_ "

"I was thinkin' more of _friends with benefits_ , but it's the same difference." He was actually considering it, and Tucker didn't know whether to jump for joy or run for the hills - whichever set of hills happened to be nearest. "We got stressful lives, Malcolm. What's wrong with blowin' a little steam together when we need it?"

The Englishman's lower lip disappeared behind a row of sharp white teeth. "I don't know," he said eventually. "I just - I'd hate to lose your friendship, Trip. It - it does mean a lot to me, even if I'm a grumpy tosser sometimes."

"You're my best friend, Mal." The large claim earned him a quizzical cock of the head. "Okay, I'd 've called the Cap'n that once, but things change. Him and me - it's not been the same since we launched. He's my boss. You're my equal."

"I think Starfleet might dispute that, but thank you. Now, d' you think we might sneak back into the theatre before anyone comes looking for us?"

"Or the Cap'n needs to pee?" He hadn't got an answer in words, Tucker realised, letting himself be ushered back into the unprepossessing corridor ahead of the subordinate officer, but sometimes words just complicated things. Malcolm had looked him right in the eye as he'd given that ambiguous thank you. 

He'd gotten the message. And when he squeezed back into his place between Archer and the Vulcan he found he could take in the second half of the show, with the roles reversed and the slender guy receiving the attention of Jon Mark II, with complete composure.

Well, almost.

It was good to have a best buddy.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have an agreement. Now who'll be the first to act on it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after 2.12 "The Catwalk".

Swiping the last dribbles of water from his face Tucker hurled his towel in the general direction of the laundry pile and stretched, relishing the touch of clean clothes against newly-washed skin. It was lucky they'd gotten off the catwalk quicker than anybody expected; another couple of days in that grimy, stinking sweatbox would most likely have sent half the crew insane.

If, he reflected gloomily, it hadn't started them all fighting first.

Despite the pummelling of a hot shower his back and shoulders still ached, muscles cramped by days in that confined space. His head ached. Worse than the physical residue of discomfort, though, was the restlessness.

He'd hopped into the shower in the hope of relaxation; worked up his favourite sandalwood soap into a creamy lather, keeping the water comfortably warm as it swept the filth from his body. It had spared him ten minutes of staring at the same four walls but now here he was, refreshed and flushed all over from the ferocity of his scrubbing, beaten down by the urge to start pacing again.

Four strides one way. Sharp turn. Four back. Another turn. Seven from door to bulkhead. Three from bulkhead to bunk.

"Dammit!"

He threw himself face-down on the bed, burying his face in the thin foam pillow. Started counting, the slow, rhythmic pace he'd intended picking up in time with his shallow breathing. "Dammit," he mouthed again as he reached fourteen.

His feet itched. His calves twitched. He couldn't fight it. Couldn't stay still, not without feeling like the walls were closing in, crushing him. 

This, Tucker decided, was what _going crazy_ felt like. He wanted to gouge his own eyes out. Scream 'til his lungs burst. Prowling the extent of his quarters, spacious by the standards of hose allotted to his subordinates, was a poor alternative, but it felt like the best he could do.

He was passing it on his third circuit when the doorchime sounded, harsh and tinny in close proximity. Irritably he stuck out a hand and smacked the release mechanism, not bothering to compose himself for his unexpected guest. "What - oh, hi, Malcolm."

"Is this a bad time?" The Englishman, always pale, looked positively ashen though his dark chocolate hair gleamed and the faint tang of shampoo carried clearly to Tucker's sensitive nostrils. Reed worked his long fingers together, gnawing his lips as he glanced past his friend into the untidy cabin. "I just wondered - I mean, what you said that night... Sorry, I'd better go hadn't I?"

"C'm in, buddy." As if the walls around him had fallen away Trip felt himself breathe deeply for the first time, drinking in the smell of shampoo, soap and man that emanated from the fretful brunet. The panic knotting his belly dissolved into a pool of liquid heat that dripped enticingly southward while he backed into the room and the armoury officer, tentative at first but with increasing confidence when the door slid shut behind them, followed like an iron filing pursuing a magnet.

"I couldn't settle," he faltered, absently tugging the cuff of his crisp long-sleeved cream shirt. Trip grunted.

"Me neither," he agreed. "I just feel all knotted up, you know? Like if I breathe too deep I'm gonna crush my chest against the wall."

"Exactly!" For the first time Reed's head shot up, stormy grey eyes meeting troubled blue direct. "I'm so wound up I can't see straight and I was wondering..."

Stress relief. Boy, did he need it!

Hi mouth had dried up too much for verbal acknowledgement but Tucker got around the problem with a nod that dissolved the tension creasing his best friend's face. "You said something about a man pushing through your arsehole, I remember?" Reed growled, the naked _want_ in his voice making Tucker shiver. Despite his recent shower, parts south were feeling dirty again. Invigorated, but dirty.

Anticipation crawled like a dozen spiders up his spine. "I did?" he croaked. Reed nodded. "Yeah. Guess I probably did."

The smile that crossed the Englishman's sharp features, at once feral, lustful and ever-so-slightly amazed, flipped his heart right over. "Lube?" Malcolm suggested hoarsely. Already attacking his fly, Trip jabbed a finger toward his bedside chest.

"Top drawer. You choose."

"Whatever." The faint bulge outlined in soft pale blue denim was growing apace and Tucker was relieved to see Reed's usually assured touch waver on the drawer handle, just the faintest hesitation betraying - he hoped - the same sense of giddy disbelief that was affecting the blond. As he spun toward the desk, hunkering down with his hands wrapped hard around the sides for purchase he heard an earthy chuckle. "Quite a selection," his friend observed with obvious approval.

"A guy's gotta do... Dammit, Malcolm, I bet you were the kid who went all 'round the candy store before goin' back to buy the first thing you saw!"

"My parents didn't let us near sweet shops, Mister Tucker." The rustle of cloth and the wet pop of a cap releasing were unbelievably erotic. Trip's erection, wavering uncertainly, reacted with a painful stab. He twisted his neck, squinting for a glimpse of the action, his heart rate rising again at the low, needy moan that escaped his companion's lips. 

Vanilla. Almond. "Good choice," he murmured, trying not to tense up when the stirring of air against his bare ass that signalled the other man's approach. The urge to fidget was overpowering again, but at least now it was welcome. Hot breath skimmed through the short hair at his nape.

"Glad you approve." Sticky fingers rubbed circles at the small of his back while Reed's other hand slipped around to caress the Southerner's swelling hardness. "Say when..."

"Just git somethin' inside me fast, alright?" Calm. For the first time since he'd gotten cooped up on the catwalk Tucker could feel it enveloping him, a serenity that made his mundane surroundings start to glow. Something tickled around his anus, sending a fluttery feeling all the way up to his bowels. "Oh, yeah."

"God you're tight, Trip." There was something like awe in Reed's words - or maybe that was just the way Tucker heard it in the instant before that probing digit got fully sheathed and hearing anything above the thump of his own heartbeat became impossible. He wriggled, pushing himself back onto the welcome intrusion, barely aware of the sting that accompanied a second finger's arrival. "C'mon, Malcolm," he panted, the gulp of oxygen insufficient to stop the wild spin of his head when the fingers scissored and his passage flexed in answer. " _When_ , dammit!"

"Oh, God!" Caught up in his own burgeoning pleasure he'd spared no thought for the sufferings of his guest, manfully repressed until the formalities were done. His first inkling came with the burning pressure of a thick, mushroom-shaped protrusion against the softened ring of his asshole and the iron grip of two strong hands on his hips. "I can't - oh fuck, Trip, I need..."

"Me too." Okay, maybe he'd needed a little more preparation: or perhaps he'd just forgotten the instantaneous, splintering pain of initial penetration, it had been a while, after all. Sinking top teeth into his tongue Trip squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled, focussing on the fullness within and the sweeter, subtler sting of blunt fingertips pressed into his hipbones. Bit by bit the burning faded, leaving only the pressure, the friction both outside and in, to engulf him.

"'s good, Mal." Dimly aware of the tremors passing through the body lain over him he bumped back, offering encouragement. The only answer was a muffled groan.

His cock ached fiercely. Prying one hand off the side of his desk Tucker squirmed a little, trying to apply the pressure required. Another, steadier hand got there first and his moan reverberated around the tight cabin.

Its echoes lingered in his skull, thunder to accompany the lightning that flared across his narrowed field of vision. He jerked, out of control, oblivious to the desk digging into his belly, aware only of the pressure, the pleasure, the heat. He was on fire, sensuous tongues of flame curling around his body and all he could do was writhe, pant and beg for more fuel on the flames. 

When it came his climax still took him unawares, his whole being possessed by a force that blew reality away. Ecstasy, pushed by the powerful spurts of Reed's simultaneous release, roared through him. Aware only of himself, Trip Tucker still felt the whole of the universe collapsing with him when he swooned away.

He came 'round to the strange, ticklish sensation of a flaccid member being cautiously withdrawn and the feathery awareness of semen cooling against his belly. "Christ I needed that," the gravelled voice of his best friend sighed. Tucker grunted. "Okay?"

"Ah-ha." Straightening up didn't hurt at all, and if there was a twinge in the anal area when he turned around the engineer felt much too good to notice. "You mind if I..."

With a vague hand gesture he indicated his unmade bed. Reed's mouth twitched.

"Feel free," he invited, the faintest twist of concern in the airy reply. Pausing in the act of stripping his remaining clothes, Tucker reached out to supply the kind of hearty back-slapping not even Jon Archer would dare attempt. "And thanks. I needed that."

"Me too." On a humongous yawn Trip threw himself down into the sheets, wrapping his pleasantly jellified length up cosily in the top cover. "Jus' what the doctor ordered."

"Oh, don't go bringing Phlox into it." Long fingers ruffled his hair and he snuffled, letting the touch seep through into his tired brain. "Breakfast, 08:30?"

"Be there. 'Night, Mal."

He was asleep before the Englishman's quiet "Goodnight, my friend," was trapped by the closing of the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first move is always the hardest to make. Now the floodgates are opening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow progress due to a bad bout of writer's block! No spoilers in this part, though.

Warp engines. He hated them. Nasty, temperamental, sadistic bastards. Old-time combustion - hell, even steam - could beat the shit out of them any day of the week.

There again, Tucker considered, limping his way toward the mess and a desperately needed first meal in eighteen hours, who'd want to be the stoker on this baby? How much coal would Enterprise eat up in a day's space travel?

If it kept him away from warp 5 technologies for this one day only he'd be happy to find out.

The mess was quiet - just a handful of equally overworked crewmen scraping the last unappealing fragments of a day's dinner that screamed _Chef can't be bothered_ off the serving counter. Stretching for a tray tugged uncomfortably on muscles already protesting overuse and when he felt the toughness of the burger, its bun already crumbling onto his plate, Tucker felt his empty gut spasm in silent protest. Still, he had to eat something if he intended getting any sleep tonight.

And, the Southerner assured himself, he intended exactly that.

He'd almost reached an out-of-the-way table when he spotted _him_. Scowling into his cooling soup, looking as pissed with life as Tucker felt, the ship's armoury officer lifted a face already set into thundering irritation, clearly aware he was being observed.

Their eyes met. Something fizzed down the length of Tucker's spine.

Food. Who needed it? What he really wanted, with all the aching ferocity of the newly-discovered, was right over there, being squashed down onto a chair.

Malcolm's ass. Bare and upturned, just ready to be entered. Pounded. Possessed.

He chewed through his unwanted meal without tasting it, aware of a sticky, sensuous uncoiling in his guts. In the weeks since they'd escaped the catwalk he hadn't thought about it at all, but now the memory of their encounter consumed him. Sex. With his friend. That would help him sleep tonight.

By the time he reached the recycler, tossing in the remnants of his meal complete with crockery and cutlery, Trip Tucker was so aroused he could barely walk. Oblivious to the curious - and appreciative - glances his condition attracted from a couple of giggling women across the room he hobbled toward the turbolift in a daze of elation he hadn't expected on such a hellish day. 

The ride to B deck took an eternity; he didn't remember getting off and lurching left, around the corner a few paces to the Englishman's door. Clarity only returned when the barrier slid away and he found himself looking into the serene face of his closest friend, lounging against the opposite bulkhead in nothing but a short black satin robe.

"You took your time," Reed observed lightly.

"Urgh." 

Now his throat was as tight as his testes, if less likely to explode at any second. Helpless, Tucker allowed himself to be steered beyond the immaculate desk with its neat line of pots and bottles, set out in ascending height. "Bad day?"

"Kind of." The simplicity of it buckled his knees. "How did you..."

"Trip." Efficient hands set about the business of removing his uniform. Pragmatic kindness personified, Reed gave him an amiable smile. "You looked like a dog slavering over a bone in the mess and call me conceited, but I don't suppose it was all for you cardboard burger. Help yourself to the lube."

"Dammit, Malcolm!" Careless of what it contained he snatched the nearest container and almost dropped it again at the sight of his friend smoothly spinning around, robe raised to reveal the shapeliest alabaster behind Trip Tucker ever had the good fortune to drool over. Gleaming beneath the black satin hem it curved enticingly, the Englishman shuffling his feet apart, hands planted firmly on the bulkhead. "You're doin' this on purpose!"

"Of course I am." The smug answer faded into a sigh at the first probe of a blunt fingertip soaked in oil and the rest of the digit was consumed by his wriggling backward. Tucker's chest tightened up painfully at the feeling.

He couldn't hurt the guy. He had to do this right. But oh boy, his cock needed what that finger was getting!

Half the contents of his chosen pot went down the length of his phallus; the rest oozed seductively down the shadowy cleft between those tempting butt cheeks, its cold progress making the brunet quiver. Cautious, Tucker swirled his captive finger, glorying in the responsive twitch of internal muscles. "Say you're ready, Mal!" 

Reassurance came without words in the way Reed's anus flinched around his withdrawing hand. Pressing his open mouth to the slippery fabric covering the Brit's shoulder Trip guided himself slowly forward, trying not to moan too loud in relief when the sensation of being clasped in a fist that possessed him.

Like a film of running water the material over Reed's back slipped between the two men, a strangely soothing sensation to both in contrast with the liquid fire lower down. Fully sheathed in his partner Trip grabbed both hips and began to rock, feeling his tenuous grip on control slide. Burying his face in the other man's neck he squeezed his eyes tight shut and let it go.

His muffled moans and Reed's sharp, guttural barks swirled around the compact cabin, a further source of stimulation if he'd only been alert to enjoy it. Reed's body flexed and relaxed around him, every sensitised millimetre of his captive member aflame where it touched silken inner skin. Blind, he reached forward, his hand already cupped to match the curve of the lieutenant's flesh.

Their fingers clashed, then clenched, joining around Reed's penis to pump at a preordained frantic pace, the Brit bucking back and forth, the American riding his frenzied motions and milking the pleasure they gave for all they were worth. His head spun. His balls burned. He needed to come, but not yet.

Not without Malcolm. 

The body beneath him stiffened. The muscles pummelling him and the fingers tangled with his tightened together. 

For Trip Tucker it seemed the warp core had exploded. Everything - his body, the room around him, the very fabric of space and time itself - came apart in a white-hot burst of pure sensation. A deep, keening sound tore from his throat, heating the wet silk beneath his tongue. For a long, long time he seemed to drift in nothingness, conscious only of his slowing heartbeat and the solid warmth of the body supporting him. "Better?" a drowsy English accent enquired.

"Better." Parroting the word helped gather his scrambled wits and carefully Tucker eased back and up toward a vertical stance, his limp cock slipping its bonds. "Thanks, Mal. Figure it was that or the airlock tonight."

"Anytime." The airy reply accompanied a smile which, had he been more alert, Tucker might have noticed stopped short of the other man's clear grey eyes. "Breakfast as usual?"

"Wouldn't miss it." Still tucking himself in Trip ambled out into the deserted hall, leaving his friend to stare silently until the door slid shut between them.

With a sigh Malcolm Reed stripped off his sweat-soaked robe. With the relentless, unseeing persistence of an automaton he kept wiping it across the bulkhead long after the last few smears of congealing semen were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions are running high aboard Enterprise Fortunately, two of her officers have their own way of handling the strain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Severely delayed by computer malfunctions....spoilers for 2.19 "Judgement"

"For cryin' out loud, T'Pol!" He'd been patient - kind of. He'd sat by and let her handle the negotiations with her shifty Klingon "contact" even when her subtle suggestion that their discussions were being recorded for future reference had been almost too subtle for him to notice, still less the growler at the other end of the commlink. Hell, he'd even agreed to keep out of the delicate negotiation being undertaken from the helmsman's console, monitored by a twitching armoury officer, for fear of his bull-in-a-china-shop tendencies getting in the way of progress. But now - now, the lady had gone too far.

He could feel it happening again; the air being slowly sucked off the bridge, chilling the marrow of every petrified being left on it. Ever since Jonathan Archer had fallen into Klingon hands everything had been wrong aboard Enterprise, and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he, the man's oldest friend, could do about it.

"We daren't remain in Klingon space, Commander; their instructions were perfectly clear, and if Enterprise is destroyed it would be illogical to consider a rescue attempt." Cold as Rura Penthe itself the Vulcan held his hostile gaze even as she repeated her command to the helm. "Set course for neutral territory, Ensign. Please."

As if, he thought, the concession to courtesy was necessary. Travis was no fool. He knew who was in charge.

And he knew she was right. They all did. 

They just didn't have to like it.

The past two weeks had been hell; not so much walking on eggshells as tramping barefoot over a bridge of nails, every crewman, whatever rank or station, aware of the constant, niggling scratch of fear inside. Nobody spoke, except to snarl. Tempers had frayed so far even Hoshi Sato was reported threatening to snap some bastard's spine. Jon would have wanted his crew to unite in adversity; be patient, supportive, considerate, all that holier-than-thou crap Starfleet spouted to each graduating Academy class each year. 

_Like hell!_

Trip Tucker was a gregarious man but since they'd entered Klingon territory he'd been a monosyllabic sociopath. Except when he was snarling at the Vulcan.

As a release of tension fighting with T'Pol sucked and that was without taking into account the effect their bickering had on everybody else. Never mind a knife; the tension on board could be cut right down the middle with a dead twig.

"I think we're in business, Subcommander." Reed's crisp announcement did the job nicely, causing all heads to turn with an audible creak. Tucker shrank back behind the slighter man, feeling ridiculously exposed with nobody even noticing. "The barge _Iliodor_ has changed course for the rendezvous."

Air seeped back onto the bridge. Mostly carbon dioxide, Tucker decided, expelled from the lungs of his colleagues, but momentarily it loosed the steel springs he called his intestines. T'Pol nodded.

"Mr Mayweather," she said levelly. Travis's hands jerked on his console.

"Course laid in," he announced without turning around. "Ah, Subcommander..."

"Stand down Alpha shift." If he hadn't known better, Tucker would have sworn her narrow shoulders sagged just a little as he lunged into the lift.

Only one person moved faster. He was used to that. When the door snapped shut, leaving the two of them facing off at a range of millimetres, he was even glad of it.

Reed didn't speak. Words were superfluous. North Atlantic eyes spoke to Caribbean blue. By the time they hit B deck every decision had been made.

The few steps to the Englishman's cabin could have been taken on air. Waiting just long enough to guarantee privacy Reed launched himself at the bigger man, wrenching at his uniform while claiming a gaping mouth in a kiss of bruising intent. His knees already buckling under the assault Tucker hit the deck beneath the other man. What little breath he had left might have been squeezed out of his lungs, but he didn't care. 

The knotted cable in his gut was uncoiling. His head felt light, the blood drawn away to a more important area while they fumbled and flailed, clawing, scraping through cloth and flesh. Finally, for the first time in forever, he felt alive.

They tumbled across the floor in pure erotic combat, bare skin chafed by the roughness of Starfleet's coarse carpeting where clothing had been pulled away. Still kissing, Trip toed his left boot off, aware of a satisfying thud as it launched off the end of his foot and into the nearest bulkhead. 

Getting the right off with only socked toes quickly proved beyond him: he didn't care. Briefly he had Reed trapped beneath him, wrenching his mouth free long enough to attach it, teeth first, to the Englishman's creamy neck. Reed's jolt in response turned them a fully hundred and eighty degrees, Tucker's elbow catching the desk frame on the way.

Dull pain spread from the joint down the length of his arm, a strange, erotic prickle that made him moan, hot and wet, against his partner's throat. Malcolm jerked. 

"Lower," he rasped, tugging helplessly at the Southerner's hair. "Harder!"

"Oh, yeah." He needed this. None of that nice crap. He wanted it rough. 

He sank his teeth into the Brit's chest. Reed's short nails scored a fiery line down his back. One more roll brought them smack up against the cold wall, sending another blast of sensation into the swirl possessing him. Tucker thrust hard, biting down on his friend's tight nipple as the ecstasy overcame him.

Malcolm's sharp, sweet yelp sliced through the roar of blood in his ears, the lithe, strong form beneath him squirming frenziedly, prolonging Tucker's pleasure while finding its own. Dimly he was conscious of blunt fingertips burning into the solidity of his bicep; of the subtle residual sting of scratch-marks across his back. Even the residual ache in his funny bone felt good, spreading its pleasant, tingling heat. Reality hovered, a long, long way away.

It got closer, but slowly enough for Tucker to tolerate as the man beneath him stilled and the soft huffs of regular breath rippled through his hair. "Okay?" he mumbled.

"Mmm, think so." With a hazy grin Reed brought a finger up to the reddened mark left by an especially enthusiastic suckle. "Thanks."

"Thank _you_." Aware they sounded like a pair of strangers pausing at a narrow doorway Tucker finished the reply with a quick peck to the most abused area. "Sorry. Got a little wild there."

"Yes, it did."

Satisfaction oozed from the cut-glass accent like warm treacle from a spoon and something inside Tucker's chest twanged with erotic recognition. "You like it rough, huh?"

"From time to time." Absentmindedly the lieutenant snagged his own nipple between two fingers, a sharp exhale whistling between his teeth. With a grin Tucker brushed the digits asked and applied a sharp pinch with his own. 

Reed's sated body twitched in all the right places. "Ah'm discoverin' all your dirty secrets today, Lootenant," Trip drawled. Malcolm emitted a strangled hoot.

"Think I might've picked up on some of yours too, Comm _aaa_ nder," he replied, extending the title to absurd lengths while taking a sharp nip at the jugular. Tucker twitched, savouring the sizzle that lanced through him. 

"Who's the observant sonofabitch, then?" he joked, his own powers returning sufficiently to make him aware of the jumpsuit scrunched around his ankles and the coolness of air against one socked foot opposed to the heat and pressure around the booted one. "Whoops. Did we make that mess?"

"Probably the starship pixies did it." Perfectly solemn, Reed sat up to survey the abandoned shirts, tanks and tees; not to mention the single boot halfway across the room. "Want a hand up?"

"I'm okay, thanks." Hitching up his coverall as he rose, Trip grinned crookedly at his friend. "In fact, I'm one helluva lot better than I've felt since the Cap'n's trial started"

Reed's smile almost reached his expressive eyes. "Ditto. That my shirt?"

Tucker made a show of holding the black scrap against himself. "Sure as hell won't fit me," he said lightly. Malcolm laughed.

The comm. crackled before he could formulate a witty reply. "Senior officers, please report to the situation room."

If it had been anybody but T'Pol Tucker would have sworn there was a quiver in those flat, pragmatic words. The sweat still lingering on his body went cold.

A perfect match, he realised as he stared at the other man, for Malcolm's opaque eyes. 

"Guess it's on," he said flatly.

"Apparently so." Reed squared his shoulder, visibly steeling himself. "Well, the sooner, the better, I daresay."

Before either man could think better of it, Tucker dragged him into a crushing hug. "You be careful, you hear me?" he muttered, gruff with a sudden surge of emotion. Reed shrugged.

"I'll get the captain back," he promised solemnly.

Like a little boy, Tucker realised, something twisting hard in his guts at the unexpected vulnerability. "Get yourself back too, you got that?"

"Aye, sir." Helpless to do more in the time allowed him, Reed finger-combed his dark hair until only a single wayward curl fell out of position, flopping over his brow. "Ready?"

"Aye, sir." That single imperfection, that one little hint of the man behind the flawless officer's mask, almost broke Tucker's heart and he had to clasp both hands behind his back while the subordinate officer stepped aside at the door.

He made sure what when the turbolift hit the bridge they stepped out side by side, the picture of professional competence.

He only wished one of them, at least, could feel it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip's suffering. Malcolm wants to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after 2.22 “Cogenitor” It’s not a favourite of mine, so be gentle if I’m not strictly canon…

His head down in his hands Tucker didn't hear the first tentative rapping of knuckles on his door: the second time he just wondered without real interest why the jackass in question didn't just hit the doorchime like anybody else. 

Only when the knocking sound came a third time did he recognise that his visitor wasn't about to take a "fuck off and leave me alone" silence for an answer. And that only one person on the ship, normally so observant, could possibly be that dense.

Or brave, he amended as his own voice, muffled and scratchy, mumbled the requisite permission. Or maybe foolhardy.

"Hi." Malcolm Reed shuffled over the threshold making his slight frame as large as possible: a precaution against nosey passers-by Tucker would have appreciated more if it didn't look so damn silly. "Er it's a bit of a daft question, but how are you doing?"

"Okay." It was about as convincing as a certain armoury officer's trademark _"fine"_ with a bullet lodged in the leg. "Guess the Cap'n told you?"

"Actually, it was T'Pol." The automatic honesty was greeted with a grunt and a drop of the head. "I'm sorry, Trip."

"Yeah. Me too."

Silence lay thick and heavy as leftover porridge between them. "Guess she's tellin' everybody," Tucker muttered, giving his swollen eyes an angry rub. "Makin' sure they all know how bad the dumbass fuckin' engineer screwed up."

"Actually." Embarrassment compromised the Englishman's usually perfect stillness. "I asked her. And before you ask - no. We were in the ready room. The crew don't know."

"Not yet." He was surprised - almost grateful his worst fears weren't confirmed, and yet she - the cogenitor, Charles, whatever - was dead because of him. No punishment, no amount of silent disapproval emanating from his horrified shipmates, could make Trip Tucker feel worse about that than he did already. "Dammit, Malcolm, what have I _done?_ "

"Tried to help, just as you always do." How the man moved so fast Tucker would never know, but in the split second between wailed question and soft response Reed was on his knees before him, gripping the Southerner's wet, sweaty hands in his own. "You'd need a Vulcan's heart not to be affected by the cogenitor's situation, and I don't care what she says: to be human is to want to help. Your intentions were good. Don't forget that."

The simple kindness of the earnest words cracked the largest piece left of his heart. Trip didn't even try to stop the tears from flowing again. "You know the one about the road to hell, right?"

"I also know a good heart is a man's greatest asset, and you have it." The grip on his hands tightened as Reed shifted, sinking back onto his heels. "Promise me you won't lose that, Trip!"

"I can't..."

Whatever he was about to say flew out of Tucker's head when the Englishman's dark one dipped forward, mouth wide open to pour hot, moist breath through the soft fleece of ancient sweatpants into his crotch. "Malcolm, don't!"

The cry mutated into a moan halfway through, pleasure rippling out from his core with every nuzzle and huff Reed bestowed: now nosing his balls, then breathing long and hot down the side of his swelling length. The Englishman's fine-boned, pale hands shifted, releasing their hold on Trip's in favour of splaying out beneath his crumpled tee, gently lifting the fabric before sliding down to grip his waistband. 

"Come on, up for me, that's right," a hypnotic voice crooned, long fingers working soft material away until his nether regions lay completely exposed. Tucker seized the bedclothes on either side of him, squeezing handfuls of the thin sponge mattress against his palms. This was wrong. He didn't deserve this.

Reed's tongue danced across the broad head of his cock. The question of merit went right out of Tucker's head.

"That's it, let go." Every word caressed his genitals, that skilful tongue first stroking a tender testicle, then sliding the length of his tingling phallus before skipping playfully around the head. He was sinking into quicksand, his body heavy while his head got giddily light. Sightless, breathless, Tucker sank willingly, releasing the coarse bedding in favour of the silken cool of Reed's dark hair sliding against his fingers. 

The movement of his hands seemed to spur the Englishman on, his throat relaxing to accept more of Tucker's heated length. His exhales rippled the Southerner's pubic hair, each individual strand sparking electric currents where it touched the skin. A low, keening sound escaped Trip's tight throat.

Slowly, deliberately, Reed began to suck. Trip Tucker's universe dissolved around him.

Heat. Pleasure. Pure serenity. They consumed the overwrought American until he was nothing but the sum of their parts, a squirming, mindless mass of molten flesh aware only of the oncoming storm. He didn't have the strength, physical or emotional, to resist its magnetic pull.

The mattress gave beneath him as he jerked, pushing himself deeper into Reed's eager mouth, heedless of the creaking springs. He wanted this. Needed this. Even if he wasn't sure what _this_ was anymore.

Light blinded him. Time stopped. As the first heaving convulsion shot ribbons of lightning to every extremity his penis pulsed pure heat into Malcolm's throat and the Brit's fingers bit like steel pins into the tender flesh of Tucker's waist, an anchor for both while the blond's body worked like a broken marionette's. He held on tight until the shudders subsided and Tucker flopped, panting, into his arms.

"Good man." Bestowing a feathery kiss on the top of the honey-gold crown Malcolm manipulated his man into a prone position, sweats around his ankles and shirt scrunched up around the pecs. Tucker snuffled, too far gone to object when a sheet was drawn carefully up toward his chin. "Sleep now, okay?"

He knew the tender command had been obeyed before he could back out the door. Trip's gentle snore hiccoughed by him into the deserted passageway. Absent-mindedly wiping the sticky residue of his recent activities from the corner of his mouth Malcolm Reed allowed himself a small, sad smile.

The guilt wouldn't go away; he knew Trip better than to think a few hours' oblivion would soothe the kinks out of that secretly sensitive soul. But if it bolstered his spirits at all through the days ahead, the minor effort would have been well worthwhile.

It had certainly, Reed conceded as he mechanically set about the business of keying in his access code and preparing himself for bed, had a positive effect on him!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip has a chance to return a favour. This leads to a not entirely welcome epiphany...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for 2.23 “Regeneration”; plus a brief reference to 2.06 “Marauders”.

Malcolm. He'd seen the captain since the cybernetic creepies' ship had been destroyed, but he hadn't seen Malcolm. Tucker wasn't sure why that fact was bugging him. 

It was enough for him that it was.

Archer looked shaken. The crew seemed shell-shocked. Reed, probably still pumped full of adrenaline, should have been right in the middle of things, a point of comforting familiarity in the aftermath of the kind of action he craved.

Yet nobody seemed to know where he was. 

Confident his team weren't likely to blow up the ship anytime soon Tucker snuck out of Engineering and headed pell-mell for the turbolift. Some folks didn't like Malcolm's edginess after combat: Hoshi said the armoury officer made her nervous when he was still coming down off a fight. What Trip had learned to fear most was the man's knack of making himself invisible whenever something wasn't completely right. Like an injured animal retreating to its den, Reed had a habit of licking his wounds alone. 

Well, he'd been there for Tucker when he needed a friend, and Trip was damned if he wasn't going to pay back the favour now.

His first touch of the doorchime elicited no response. After the second he caught a definite groan. Giving up on trying for number three, he rapped in his override and pushed through before the door was halfway open.

"For cryin' out loud, Malcolm!" he erupted at the sight which greeted him. "Haven't you ever heard of Sickbay, you stubborn damn sonofabitch?"

"There's no need to shout." His sharp features contorted with effort Reed eased his way to an almost-vertical position, dignified despite his half-dressed state - and the fact, Tucker noticed absently, that both boots were on the other side of the room, clearly abandoned where they'd fallen when their owner had forced them off from a prone position on the bed. "I'm a bit stiff, that's all."

"Y' know, you're my friend an' all, but sometimes I get real pissed by that _English understatement_ thing of yours." Most people, Tucker suspected, would respond to the sight of a pal in distress with sympathy. Still, considering Malcolm Reed's usual reaction to compassion was a fist in the face, maybe his instincts were safer. "What happened? You can't even get your fuckin' shirt off, can you? Turn around, it's nothin' I've not seen before!"

"One of those _creatures_ caught me from the rear." Obediently Reed shuffled to face the wall, his attempt to conceal the subsequent wince only emphasising the movement. "Oh, I'm all right; just got tossed up against a bulkhead. Could've been worse."

"I guess so." Archer's description of the former humans clanged through Tucker's skull. Nothing left that made them who they were, he'd said. If one of those monsters had gotten his tubules into Malcolm..."

Ice impinged on his every major organ. "Gawd dammit, you're tight as a turtle's ass!" he spluttered. The pad of his thumb pressed behind Reed's shoulder blades and the Englishman almost hit the roof. 

"Ow! Fuck, that hurt!"

A large inverted triangle stained the armoury officer's back, and as he jerked his head Tucker discovered it wasn't the only sign of recent violence. "Malcolm? He have you by the throat or somethin'?"

The dark head wobbled what might have been agreement. Crimson fog began to gather before Tucker's eyes. 

Deliberately he blinked it away. "Get into the shower, Lieutenant, and set it warm," he instructed curtly. "I'll be right back."

Before the inevitable protest could start, he ran.

He didn't stop running until he hit sickbay, pulled up short by the sight of Doctor Phlox in his bright blue sleepsuit, head bowed close to the data scrolling slowly across his monitor. "Er, you sure you're supposed to be doin' that, Doc?"

"The mind should always be kept occupied during recuperation, Commander; idleness is the ally of infirmity." Though the Denobulan's eyes were dull and his movements sluggish his smile was still cheerful, and for the first time Tucker's heart began to lift. "Now - as my guardian has retired, what can I do for you?"

"Not me. Malcolm."

Phlox's chuckle was raspy, but sincere. "And what has our gallant lieutenant been doing to himself this time, dare I ask?"

"Gettin' knocked around by those cybernetic buddies of yours. He's pretty sore, so I thought maybe a shot of a muscle relaxant..."

"If I were at my best I'd suggest bringing him down here and following it with a good massage." The prospect of a patient galvanised the kindly alien and, ungainly, he staggered across the room, fumbling fingers filling a small syringe. "Your field medicine's up to date, I presume?"

"Updated right before the Cap'n had us takin' on those Klingon bullies." If Phlox could forget his exuberant pre-battle lecture, Tucker wondered if he was really safe to be preparing medication. "Are you sure I shouldn't just holler for Cutler or somebody?"

"My co-ordination may be affected Commander but I assure you, my medical knowledge is intact." He had to admit that sounded more Phlox-like, and the grin that accompanied the words would have lit up a Pharaoh's tomb. "Direct to the jugular in a single shot; and don't be alarmed if the effects are quite dramatic. It's not a sedative as such, but most powerful muscle relaxants have a pronounced _soporific_ effect."

"Maybe I'll risk that backrub in your place, Doc." Malcolm's slick, smooth flesh beneath his palms... Just the thought of it made his fingertips tingle. "Don't worry - I'm real good with my hands!"

"Well, on your head be it if Mister Reed reacts unfavourably, Commander." His eyes brightening by the moment, Phlox was already anticipating another distraction from his own condition. "And remember - I'm here if you need me!"

"Thanks, Doc." Whether for backup or emergency surgery Tucker wasn't sure but as he sauntered back toward B Deck he figured at least he wasn't far from finding out.

*

He entered the Englishman's quarters in time to watch him shuffle from the bathroom wearing a half-mast pair of shorts and struggling in manful silence to raise his towel to shoulder height. "Gimme that, willya?" he said amiably, snatching both cloth and command before an objection could be voiced. "Phlox sends his best. Says if you need him in the mornin', holler."

"Oh, just what I bloody well need," Reed groused, stock-still while his friend rubbed his upper body gently dry. "Another sodding mother-hen. What's that?"

"Muscle relaxant: and don't go tellin' me you don't need it." A measure of that need was the submission with which the Brit let himself be manoeuvred face down onto the bed. "Head to the side, Lieutenant! This won't hurt a bit."

He felt the shot hiss under his hand as its contents emptied themselves into Reed's bloodstream, keeping his hand in place the few extra seconds it took for their effect to show. Malcolm's breathing hitched. He nuzzled his face down hard into the pillow. Slowly, steadily, the compacted sinews beneath Tucker's fingers began to soften.

"Better?" the engineer asked, barely above a whisper. His man was shifting subtly, small sighs bleeding into the bedding as the drugs did their work. Keeping his touch silk-soft, Trip guided the flat of his palm around to Reed's nape and downward, almost ticklish until he reached the base of the spine.

"Feelin' better?" he repeated, sing-song. Malcolm snuffled something. "Sleepy, huh?"

"Hmmmm." When he smoothed the heel of his hand upward, the sniffle deepened into a blissful sigh. "Nice."

Something inside Trip Tucker's chest melted. He suspected it might once have been his heart.

Keeping his touch gentle he stretched and smoothed up and down, working his way out to the shoulders and diagonally back into the shadowy dip where Reed's spine disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers. It was working; he could feel the iron-hard muscles slowly melt beneath his hand, and when he added a dollop of luscious, woodsy scented cream to ease the friction the effect was redoubled.

Reed's face mashed down into his pillow. His breathing steadied, interrupted by little hiccoughs of delight, sweeter by far than the hisses of subdued pain Tucker's sharp ear had detected before. Hypnotised by his own actions the Southerner kept working, his relentless rhythm broken only by the occasional need to slick up his hands.

His arms were screaming long before he was done, with Malcolm snoring softly into the bedding, the bruising blooming purple, yellow and grey across his shoulders. 

_Better out than in_ , Trip remembered his mother declaring after way too many childhood accidents and emergencies. Carefully wiping the last trace of lotion down the side of his pants, he brushed a kiss through his patient's dark hair and started backing toward the door.

One heavy grey eye popped open. "Don't go," Reed slurred.

At that moment, it happened.

Charles Tucker the Third, in a split second of Vulcanesque logical clarity, saw the light.

"'s okay, babe," he whispered, only hesitating long enough to remove the rough outer layer of uniform before climbing onto the edge of the bunk, holding his breath while its usual occupant shifted and snuggled against him. "I'm goin' nowhere. It's okay, I'm here."

When the movement had stilled and Malcolm's breath was flowing in warm ribbons around his neck, he said it out loud. "It's alright, I'm here. 

"I love you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after and time for Trip to face the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's got a bit more angsty than I planned, but here comes the happy-ever-after bit!

As if they'd hung in the air all night the words were the first thing Tucker heard echoing when he opened his eyes. Somehow in sleep he'd gotten right into the middle of the mattress, flat on his back with its rightful owner sprawled all over him, face pressed into his throat and limbs flopping loosely. 

By dint of twisting his neck Tucker could see the younger man's profile, softened and relaxed in sleep. "Oh, yeah," he breathed, watching the words ripple through silky dark hair. "You're in over your head this time, Tucker."

"Mmmm, are you?" Just the slightest intake of breath betrayed the slice of pain across Reed's upper body as he rolled into the gap between engineer and bulkhead. "Morning, by the way."

"Er, yeah, mornin'." Well, what was a guy supposed to say to the best friend he'd just discovered he was in love with?

Anything, Tucker decided, that might keep said friend's attention from the declaration being made by a certain part of his anatomy no more renowned than his mouth for its diplomatic skill. He dug his buttocks into the bedding and twisted awkwardly onto his hip, kicking his way to freedom before his humiliation could be completed. 

"Bit early to be getting up if you ask me." Though an experimental stretch ended abruptly and with the whistle of a repressed squawk between his teeth, Reed looked surprisingly comfortable: and if he was aware of his friend's embarrassment, he didn't show it. "And if you're bothered about the neighbours gossiping, I've got Morris and Hess. They're both on the night shift."

"That's a relief." The jovial comment fell flat as an underdone soufflé. "I mean - aw, shit! How're you feeling?"

"Bit stiff, but I'll live." His discomfort was catching; Reed pulled himself up to a sitting position, wrapping the bedcovers around his drawn-up knees. "Thanks."

"Anytime." He was blushing. Tuckers in love did that a lot. "I, uh, well, you look better than I expected, seein' how rough you were last night."

Stammering. Saying the wrong thing. According to Mom, classic signs. 

Malcolm unleashed his unexpectedly cute lopsided little smile. "Could've been worse. The particular creature I encountered went for brute force rather than - what were they threatening to do, _assimilate_ us? Having seen it first-hand, I don't fancy that."

"So the Cap'n said." His weight shifted from one foot to the other and back. Tucker cleared his throat.

Reed's eyebrows hit Vulcan heights. "Trip," he said kindly, "why don't you sit down and spit it out? Something's bothering you, isn't it?"

The kindness did what a straight-up Starfleet interrogation never could. It broke him.

"You're not gonna like this but I've gone and fallen in love with you, Malcolm," Tucker heard himself blurt, conscious of the sudden lifting sensation as the words, repressed God alone knew how long, spilled out. "I don't know when it happened, or why or anythin', I just know it's true. Hell, I'm startin' to think it's been true for a long time. You know how dumb I can be."

"I do. Not that it's ever stopped me loving you with everything I am."

The confession, so casual, trapped the breath in Tucker's lungs. "Loving me?" he croaked. 

Reed nodded. "Of course. I told myself it was a bad case of lust - I've always had a weakness for tall, handsome blonds - but the longer we've been out here... Pick your jaw up before it leaves a mark on the carpet, for heaven's sake. Any passing shuttle's going to mistake you for an open launchbay."

His knees were giving way. It wasn't the first time Tucker had experienced that sensation in this room, but every time before his brain had been too fried with need to fully appreciate the rubber-legged wonder of the feeling. "You love me?" he repeated.

"I'd be a bloody fool not to." The smugness that had been oozing from the other man deserted him and he coloured furiously, suddenly enthralled by the cover across his knees. "But - well, are you sure? I mean it could just be infatuation; some kind of sexual thing."

The outward assurance and the vulnerability within. Tucker had sensed the contradiction early, yet only now did he realise how it had fascinated him. "I know the difference 'tween sex and love, Mal. Sure, gettin' your dick somewhere the sun don't shine's fun, but it doesn't flip my heart over like holdin' you asleep in my arms. 

"If it wasn't love, would I hurt to see you hurting? And you understand, 'cause it's the same for you, isn't it? That's why you came lookin' for me when T'Pol told you about - about Charles."

"Of course it was." His voice had broken on the name the cogenitor had adopted and compassion overcame any uncertainty. Reed pushed off his blankets and stood, offering his hand to the taller man. "I was so afraid of you finding out, Trip! I told myself to enjoy what you were offering on Heema Librat. I never dreamed I could have you and keep your friendship, so anything I got before you found the next girl of your dreams would be a bonus..."

"Oh, darlin'!" The sheer selflessness of the man, concealed as it was beneath a veneer of self-interest, made Trip's head swim. "You've been waitin' for the other shoe drop all this time, haven't you?"

"More or less." Their fingers laced together and Reed stared at them as if he couldn't quite credit what he was seeing. "I never thought.... it's happened, hasn't it?"

"Yep." The room couldn't be spinning. The giddiness was all inside his head. "How about we go back to bed? It's gonna be a while before the alarm goes off..."

"The galley's always open by this time if you're hungry."

"Not for anything Chef's offerin'." He was still more than halfway dressed, Tucker remembered, and that was way too much for this time and place. Gently disentangling his fingers from Reed's he set about correcting the situation. "So, what do you say? We've got plenty of time. Let me make love to you."

"No." Gently cupping the blond's intent face between his hands Reed stretched up, swirling the tip of his tongue around the upturned nose. "But I'll let you make love _with_ me, if you want. Oi!"

The protest went up an octave as he was bodily scooped and swung around before being deposited on the bed as delicately as if he were made of finest porcelain - and with his flawless alabaster complexion flushed with pleasure, excitement and disbelief, Tucker thought he just might be. "Sounds good," he growled before covering the smaller body with his own. 

His mouth was claimed in a kiss of dizzying tenderness and any further attempt at speech was forgotten until the shrill birdlike cheep of the alarm. "Aw, shit," Tucker mumbled into his companion's neck. "Gotta get up now."

Gentle fingers played through his hair. "The captain will probably expect it," Malcolm agreed. Hot, damp breath poured down his chest. 

"Don't wanna play that game today."

"Me neither." Still, reluctantly, the Englishman prepared to do his duty while making sure to connect with every piece of Floridian skin he could reach. Trip sighed. 

"You're gonna make us do it though," he stated, one hand flailing millimetres above the shirt abandoned on the floor. With a rueful grin, Malcolm flipped it up to him.

"Sorry sir, we're too busy shagging to bother with work today," he quoted, forced to step lively to avoid the other man's playful swipe. Trip cocked his head. Waggled his eyebrows.

"Now c'mon, get the word right!" he protested, swooping down for a quick, hard kiss. Instantly he could feel their two bodies softening, melting into one. Reed's hands clasped at his nape, holding him down while the kiss deepened; lengthened. By the time he withdrew, the dark-haired lieutenant was bright-eyed and breathless.

"Sorry," he sighed. "Too busy making love, of course. I do love you, Trip."

"That mean I can hold your hand out there?" With a jerk of the head Trip indicated the world, too long ignored, beyond Malcolm's door.

The Englishman studied the smooth grey barrier for what felt like a lifetime before a broad, bedazzled smile broke out, transforming his usually solemn face. "I donâ't see why not, providing you put Phlox on standby first," he said mildly.

Trip Tucker was sure his triumphal whoop must have been heard on the bridge.


End file.
